Junkrat Drabbles
by Mismaed
Summary: A hoard of various short fics featuring Jamison, mostly written when bored out of my mind. None of these are in order or necessarily even related. *Originally posted on A03
1. Focus

I'm transferring my files over from AO3 and figured I have so many short Junkrat Drabbles stored away I nay as well toss them into one story. This may update at some point, none of the chapters are connected whatsoever.

* * *

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

His peg leg steadily beat against the ground, marking a steady, quick-paced rhythm in time. A glare was shot from the side, causing Jamison to frown and return the gesture, but he stilled his leg regardless. Instead, the motion shifted to his fingers- the soft pads of his fingers drumming softly against the table set before him.

The woman before him, and those who also occupied the room, he supposed- was droning on, the combination of here high pitched voice and accent drawing Junkrat's attention away from the words being said and instead causing him to focus on the sounds.

He was at a loss for how to describe it. Having spent a majority of his life lurking in the desolate landscape of Australia, he was far from familiar with foreign accents, languages, appearances or anything similar. Even if he squinted at this speaker, he had difficulties noting any major differences in nationality. Granted, she was pale, and her hair rather dark compared to both his own and Mako's, but assuming he'd been able to stay indoors for a decade Jamison was sure he'd start to match that fair skin… he thinks. He was just beginning to realize how much the sun had stained his skin all of these years.

The small female to his right, the same which had glared at him earlier, drew him back to attention by clearing her throat and giving him another pointed look. He stared back at her, confused.

"What?" He hissed, quietly as he was able.

She exhaled slowly, eyes darting between his and his hand. It took a moment, but Jamison eventually realized the tapping of his fingers had increased dramatically in volume and was now louder than his leg had originally been. Letting out his own huff of irritation, he shifts again and settles with his prosthetic leg propped up on the other and arms crossed, leaning as far back into his chair as possible. Once settled, he shoots a look to the, as far as he was concerned, obnoxious agent next to him- expression shaped as if to say "you happy?" with as much sass as possible.

All he got was a smirk in response.

That did it.

Letting out a muffled, closed mouth scream, Junkrat shifted with a jerk to crouch over the table and began aggressively tapping his fingers with both hands and stared at the woman next to him with a grin, eyes wide with intensity. When her lips parted to speak, he laughed and made a shushing noise, shifting to tap his metal leg as well.

"Jamison!"

Shit.

The stout woman which had been speaking shouted out his name, causing him to freeze and shoot her a glare. Couldn't she see he was busy? She could just go bake to talking- not that he cared about whatever was coming out of her trap. Something about the environment or some shit like that. They should really take a look at his home turf, they wouldn't be so scared about this area's landscape then. After glancing to the darker skinned woman next to him again, mentally noting the twitching stare of irritation on her face, Jamison returned his attention again to the front.

"What?!" He shouted back, exasperation clear in his voice. They'd expected him to sit still and listen for three entire hours. It was barely forty five minutes in.

"Have you even been listening?" She asks, voice already returning to it's previous volume. "Why are you purposely irritating those around you?"

He? Irritating those around him? Hah, that wasn't on purpose until the damned sheila had pissed him off. Banging his fist on the table he was quick to reply- refusing to lower his own volume. "I'm fuckin' BORED, that's why, ya dr-" A large hand had found it's way over his mouth- and half of his face, for that matter- muffling the remaining screams enough that the words were unrecognizable. Looking up, the familiar sight of his bodyguard loomed above him.

He lets out a scream of frustration at the sudden intrusion, glaring at Roadhog. The mask stared back blankly. "Shut up." The voice was low, quiet, and accented by Junkrat suddenly being picked up and forcefully dragged to the back corner of the room the behemoth had been lurking in previously. Thrashing all the way, Jamison held still only long enough to shoot the rudest gesture he could manage to his previous table mate.

After settling back in the corner, still holding a convulsing rat to his side, he nods to the woman which had been speaking. She looked flustered, but after a few seconds hesitation gave him a small smile of appreciation before carrying on with her lecture.


	2. Clean

"You're filthy."

The comment was unexpected, given its source. Junkrat nearly jumped in surprise at the sound of Roadhog speaking to him as they entered their motel room. It wasn't very frequent that his large companion voiced himself beyond telling Jamison to shut up or answer a direct question, especially not without the shorter of the duo prompting him first. Still, it was far more rare for them to stay at a motel- or any place with running water for that matter. Jamison could tell where this was going.

He didn't like it.

"What's it to you?" He snaps, already retreating to the far corner of the room, placing as much distance between himself and both his bodyguard and the bathroom as possible.

"You reek." Was the response, none of Roadhogs tone or demeanor changing as he approached the other. There was nothing threatening about the way in which he spoke and moved, yet Junkrat was fidgeting like a cornered animal. He did more than fidget when Mako got close enough to grab him, earning feral hissing and more than a few harsh bites to the arm which wrapped around the smaller man's frame.

After a few seconds of violent gnawing and thrashing, Jamie came to the conclusion there was no escape. "Put me the fuck down!" He shouts at the other, glaring up at the mask which separated their faces. A grunt is all that is offered in response, Roadhog closing the space between them and the bathroom in a few giant steps. Even with his cargo struggling, they were both in the cramped space with the faucet running water into the tub within a minute.

Eventually, Junkrat settled down- not particularly wanting to hurt himself woth more struggling when there was barely enough room to breathe let alone thrash. The stillness would be short lived, though, for soon large hands were chasing after his prostetics with pracrticed ease. "Oi!" Jamie attempts to leap to his feet, only to be held in place by a heavy arm around his waist. "OI!" he repeats, hissing once more when there is no reply. "The fuck are you doing, ya drongo?" He waits patiently for a reply, or as patiently as one can when their partner is attempting to remove their arm. It doesn't come, but after some struggle the orange appendage is detached from its base and placed on the counter, leaving abristling Junkrat behind. "The hell, Hog?"

"You dont want that getting wet." An explaination finally came. "And you're not the type to take a bath willingly."

"I don't need a fucking bath!"

Silently, the mask stared back. Both parties are still, watching eachother for a good few minutes with only the sound of flowing water willing the otherwise silent room. Eventually, it shuts off on its own- some unseen sensor in the tub signalling that it had reached capacity. Roadhog reaches again for Jamison's leg.

The younger junker swats the offending hand away and grumbles to himself, long fingers already working on detaching the remaining prosthetic. "Can do it myself…"

"Faster with two hands." The reply was airy and muffled as always. Junkrat shot a glare at the other, attempting to ignore the fact that he was still being held against the other's stomach.

"Damn shame some cunt took one of mine."

There was no response to that snide comment, and Junkrat was left on his own to finish removing the metallic peg and knee joint from his stub of a leg. Setting it on the countertop next to his hand, he crosses his arms and sulks… at least until a set of thick fingers are working off the straps of his harness. He shouldn't have been surprised, it wasn't as if this was the first time his partner in crime had to force him to properly care for his body, but it was still irritating to be stripped and manhandled like some helpless cripple. He could damn well undress himself, a fact made known when Junkrat shoved himself out of the other's arms, catching his now barely supported frame on the sink with his remaining arm.

The harness was easy enough to ditch, and after sitting on the toilet seat the boot and tattered sock quickly followed. Teeth were used to remove the half glove covering his palm, and his agile fingers made quick work of the button on his pants. The fly required a bit of help from the other which Jamie grudgingly accepted.

Finally stripped to bare skin, he tensed as the other picked him up and drops him gracelessly in the tub, spitting out the mouthful of water that made it's way into his maw when he had been squealing in protest. Already, soot was coming off of his body in waves, tinting the water to a dull grey. From across the room, a fluffy white washcloth was tossed to the tub and Roadhog gave him a pointed look. "Wash." He commanded, before turning tail and leaving for the main room.

Half an hour had passed and there was far too little noise coming from the bathroom attached to the rented space. Mako had tried ignoring his suspicions, but after it had gone on long enough he sighed and set down the book he'd found in one of the dresser drawers. The room was silent.

Pushing himself to his feet, he makes his way to the closed door and gives a light knock. "You aren't washing." He calls in. No response- not even a twitch in the water. Sighing and readjusting his mask, the large man pushes open the door and looks inside.

Jamie had passed out in the hot bath, arm draped on the outer ledge and head propped on a slightly cleaner bicep. The water was a foggy grey-brown at this point, much darker than it had been before, though if it was from Jamison actually cleaning or if merely soaking in the steaming room for a short while had made that much of a difference it was hard to tell. Either way the junker was looking much cleaner, lightly tanned skin visible for once beneath the small amount of remaining grime.

Mako stares for a moment, debating whether he should leave the other to his nap or venture to wake him up. One one hand, the brat was near silent for once- the only sound leaving his mouth being the occasional light snore. It wasn't even that likely the younger would accidentally drown himself in the tub, so there was really little for a downside.

Even so, he finds himself walking to the tub and kneeling, internally grimacing as a large hand plunges into the filthy water to pull the drain. Jamison doesn't so much as shift, twice as deaf in his sleep as he is when awake. As the water begins to drain, swirling into the pipes with a loud gurgle, Roadhog reaches for the other and effortlessly lifts him by the underarms, the motion causing his cargo to sake with a startled yelp. Amber eyes dart around frantically before being covered by a fluffy towel which Mako plops on his head.

"The hell are you-" He starts, only to be cut off by the towel moving to dry as much of his body which is accessible, causing him for squirm in protest. Once dried to the other's satisfaction, he's dropped carelessly on the bed where he can squack in protest as Mako travels back to the bathroom. A second later Jamie's clothes are being tossed out, landing sloppily on the floor near the bed and the door is shut, followed by the sound of running water.

Squinting at the door, Jamison pulls himself to the end of the bed and reaches for the the shirt he had been wearing earlier- the additional article having been added to his wardrobe to help hide his malnourished figure when a bit of stealth was necessary while traveling through towns. Pulling the cloth over his head without much struggle, he looks at the door again and patiently waits for the other to return so he at least has someone to talk to, nevermind that the likelihood of his partner responding was slim.

By the time Rutledge finished his bathing and made his way back into the common area, Rat was sprawled out on the foot of the bed, fast asleep.

And snoring.

Shit, it was going to be a long night.


	3. Boredom

*note: I don't know where I'm going with this, I'm just bored in class and avoiding writing a lab report for chem. (Don't tell my professor)

*update: I didn't know what to write and finished that lab report. Ugh. The video we're watching in class is so freaking loud, typing is hard. (I still haven't written anything)

*update II: It's been three weeks since I started this. Help.

* * *

A hollow clunk echos through the room, shortly followed by a second thud, and then a third. Junkrats leg bounced impatiently, tapping out a rapid and unsteady beat into the metal floor below him. Everything was metal here, a strange concept when one spent as much time as he outside in the dirt. Perhaps there had been a point that he'd lived under the shelter of one of these artificial nests. Perhaps not.

He couldn't remember.

He didn't care.

Turning his head to look out the window, he watches the sky lazily push clouds across the pristine panels. The blobs of white seemed to be taking their time in traveling, and that somehow made him more anxious to move. Everything was so damn slow in this wretched base. They'd been here for three days, he and Roadie, and Hell be damned if Jamison wasn't ready to explode- whether that be literally or figuratively he wasn't sure. Both sounded pretty nice right about now.

Three days they'd been here.

Three.

Painful.

Boring.

Days.

He'd been man handled (and not in the good way mind you), nearly drowned in what that witch of a doctor refered to as a decontamination shower, been forbidden from blowing anything up, had half of his possessions removed from his person after he DID blow something up, forced to sit in on more meetings, lectures and debriefings than he could count anymore, and generally cooped up inside for the entirety of the past half a week. If he'd had known going straight would be this difficult, he'd've shoved a grenade straight up that damn monkey's ass and told him to "fuck off" the second he attempted to recruit him and his bodyguard companion. As it was at the time, help running from the law sounded like a swell idea. As good as he and Roadhog were, they could only keep it up on their own for so long. That speech about being a hero hadn't been nearly as appealing as the idea of not being dragged to prison by a giant ape and the team of freaks and misfits he brought with him.

Besides, he'd figured they'd get along just fine with the rest of the rejects. He couldn't have been more wrong.

The first day the resident medic had free reign of him. It had taken the help of a friggin' giant who, despite his age, was nothing but a pure wall of muscle to keep him still long enough to get him stripped to his skivvies and tossed in a shower that may as well have been a cell. After that Roadhog- damn the traitor- had to help get his prosthetics off for a proper examination that ended with Angela or whatever-her-name-is recommending he upgrade his peg leg. Needless to say the suggestion was met with angry shouts and a plethora of foul language and insults.

He didn't see her the next day, but he wasn't so stupid as to not realize she was still watching from a distance. The sheila was everywhere. It was creepy as fuck.

There were a pair of them meant to interrogate him- a scrawny woman with a visor and some dwarf with a beard longer than he was tall. They had some electronic white board type thing set up in a medium sized room that was cluttered with peanut butter jars of all things, skribbles Jamison could barely make out scrawled across the screen.

Within five minutes he'd irritated the woman with an unknown- yet somehow still nice to listen to- accent to the point of storming out of the room. The short man, who claimed to not be a dwarf, yet definitely was was irritable trying to explain to him that he needed to learn trigonometry if he wanted to be more effective in battle. It had taken some convincing, but junkrat eventually talked the other into heading "outside" by offering him a challenge.

A series of targets were placed on a makeshift practice range which was (irritatingly) still indoors. He gave the midget a solid ten seconds to start his calculations, ignoring every comment about trajectory and air resistance or some similar drivel while he swiftly assembled his grenade launcher. When prompted for comment about the amount of rotary power his launcher supplied, Junkrat merely shrugged, haphazardly pointed the weapon towards the targets while handing it to the other. "Bet I can hit more than you can while you do that math trash" He'd commented.

He waited for the Swede to fire a test shot, then apparently run some mental figures before lobbing a second grenade directly at one of the targets in the line. "You see," the elder man commented, ignoring Jamison as he swiftly tore apart two of his concussion mines, rearranging their innards before closing one off. "If you just apply yourself-" another grenade hit a target, and perhaps Jamison was mildly impressed. Rather, he would be impressed if he wasn't busy lazily tossing his altered mine towards the center of the remaining three targets. It landed a few feet short.

"-You'd improve ten fold." The other concluded, looking rather pleased with himself. Clearly he saw this toss as proving his point.

Jamie merely grinned, bent down to look the other in the eye and stated "Aiming's overrated" before pressing the button on his detonator, his mine taking out everything within a twenty foot radius. Consequently, the room was then a wall short.

Which was supposedly why they took away his tools and supplies.

Which was why he was sitting here, at an empty desk.

Bored.

With nothing to do.

Grumbling to himself, Jamison flops forward to let his head bang against the desk. That was a mistake. Everything, even the damn desk, was metal here. Groaning to himself and putting a hand up to his now aching head he slowly pushes himself to his feet. Maybe Roadhog was busy with something. At least pestering him would give him something to do. If not, well…

These damn Overwatch people were the ones who expected him to behave with nothing entertaining to do, and hacking a cleaning drone for a few basic "household chemicals" shouldn't be too hard.

On second thought, forget Mako. He had an art project to make.


	4. Insomnia

Light flickers into and out of existence, dimming to a faint embers glow before flaring up again with the introduction of additional oxygen. The cycle carries on- fade and grow, fade and grow- until eventually the wick burns low enough to drown itself in wax. Amber eyes watch carefully as the small fire takes its last breath and fades from existence.

Junkrat sits, back propped against the wall with the makeshift candle cradled in a metal palm. He makes a noise of disapproval at the tin cup of wax, giving it a few choice words of irritation before tossing it into the desk next to his bunk. Still grumbling to himself, the explosives "expert" flops gracelessly onto the mattress behind him and takes to staring at the ceiling.

There wasn't much to see.

The smooth metal gave away no hints to where one piece of ceiling tile melded into another in the low light, nor could the soot patterns from past experiments be observed without the assistance of those lights which shine during the day. Even with a full moon outside, obese with reflections of the sun, most of the rooms recesses remained darkened. This wouldn't do either.

Rolling into his side, Jamison releases a stressed giggle, one hand rising to scratch the side of his head whilst the other taps a rhythm on his hip to match the lazy beating of his heart. No excuses, as far as he could tell, for his body to keep him up this late. If he were to trust the tick tock ticking of his alarm clock it was nearing three in the morning. He'd come to bed with the intention of sleeping well over four hours ago.

"Damn it all." His voice is hardly a hiss in the night, rather an angry-and loud- accent to the sound of his peg leg slamming into the wall as he rolls over. Frustration is written plainly across his face as he wriggles his still attached foot over the fabric beneath him. He'd tried slipping under the blankets earlier in the night, but had quickly grown too warm with the additional fabric. Perhaps it would be more tolerable now.

A few minutes and several shifts later would prove otherwise, as the few blankets quickly felt both too heavy and too light to deal with, the weight of them acting as a suffocating force to his slim frame. Giving up on this and tossing them aside, he was returned to square one.

Under normal circumstances, should something irritate the junker to this extent, he would blow it up along with all his other problems. Given the small nature of this room, however, that hardly seemed appropriate as what was left of Jamisons common sense and impulse control informed him. Instead, he settled for imagining the explosions.

Colorful.

He could enjoy colorful right now. Fireworks were delightful, of course, but he hardly used them in his work- too much risk of giving away positions and all that. At most colors were reserved for celebrations and holidays when the team needed a treat. At the least, as it has been for several months, they were non-existent entirely.

Yes, colors were a necessary part of this fantasy. Sound, too. Great booms that shook the core of your being, more felt than heard by ears damaged with far too many years of mistreatment. (There was, after all, reason for his constant shouting and loud habits).

He'd have to craft some fireworks, then. Set them up in a show as sporadic as his typical thought train. Flashes, crackles, sizzling pieces of drag falling down to the earth all tied together in a pattern recognizable only to the scattered mind which created it.

Twitching all the while, Junkrat manages to kill another half an hour with plans for a show of spectacular proportions, all tucked away inside of a rip tire charge before distraction overcomes him again. Frustrated and defeated, he rolls out of bed and stumbles over to his desk, assembling a handful of materials to take back to the bed. After a few seconds of muttering to himself and hands moving in motions so well practiced it was seemingly of their own accord, he holds another shoddily assembled candle, this time tinted with a few choice metals that would likely make too much smoke and stain the ceiling.

A match is struck, and the light once again flickers into existence.


End file.
